


Who Rides There So Late Through The Night Dark And Drear?

by SharpestScalpel



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Historical, Charles Is A Virgin, Dubious Consent, Hang On To Your Nightshirt Charles, Happy Ending, How'd A Nice Jewish Boy Like You End Up In These Woods?, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Skeevy Fairytale, The Erl King, Use Your Words Erik, Virginity, Watersports, but not for long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Xmen Tales challenge - an adaptation inspired by the Erl King.</p>
<p>Charles has been dreaming. But he should have known better than to leave the inn in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The road wends through the forest, and Charles eyes the deep shadows to either side of the road with eager interest. The trees arch over the heads of the party members, dappling the well-trod surface below the steady pacing of the horses – sunlight bleeds through the branches above and sharpens the contrast between the path Charles is following and the hollows between the massive trunks.

It’s a thunder of hooves that raises Charles’s head – a sudden gust of wind pushes his overlong curls back from his forehead and the brightness of the sky he’s glimpsed overhead since the beginning of his journey out of the city dims.

His horse sidesteps, and Charles clings to the saddle pommel.

The light shifts again and he can’t see his traveling companions – Charles feels sweat bloom under his arms, at the small of his back. The rush of something coming through the forest grows louder and Charles cannot help but turn to face it.

Another flash of lightning – and Charles gasps, sits up in the bed he’d fallen into almost as soon as they arrived at the inn.

His heart is a rabbit pulse, hard in his chest behind the tight squeeze of his lungs. He’s tangled in his nightshirt. Charles pushes the heavy duvet back, swings his legs off the overstuffed mattress, and focuses on the coolness of the floor’s boards under his toes. The wood is rough in the corners of the room, but it’s been worn smooth by the side of the bed.

The dreams hadn’t begun until they reached the great expanse of forest. In the city, his sleep had been uninterrupted – no matter how late he tended to retire from his studies. Charles likes the nighttime, likes how quiet the university grounds are when he walks from the library back to his quarters. He’s used to the bustle of students and professors during the day, other scholars starting their work as late as he does and burning lamps well after sun set. 

But when the party of researchers, led by careful guides and soldiers, had passed the outer walls, started on the road that will eventually lead them to the mountain-top town that is their goal, Charles had been taken by a sense of anticipation. He’d written it off as excitement about their journey – until he’d woken from dreams of running through the woods, faster than his own feet could carry him. He’d felt whip-thin branches breaking across his shoulders, smelled the crush of moss under his boot heels.

The morning had come all too early; Charles had blinked against the dawn as it crept in his window, finally come to keep him company. His colleagues had laughed at him, ribbed him for the dark circles under his eyes, and insinuated that perhaps the innkeeper’s daughter had kept him up.

Charles had flinched. And retreated into the simple breakfast provided for them – bread and cheese with the leftover meat from the previous evening’s ham. The travel had been grueling. No one had the energy to tease him for his yawns throughout the day.

It’s been five nights, five different inns after five days of hard travel. The dreams have continued; the dreams have escalated. Charles dreams about an unseen figure, dreams about being chased. He dreams about the heady joy of running, of splashing through cold water rushing over rocks. There’s blood rushing through his ears. Charles feels like prey. 

Far from being afraid, Charles wakes up hard each morning, his cock curving up over his belly to smear wetness against his skin. He fights himself, ignores the need to reach between his legs and fist himself. It’s a sin, he thinks, repeats like a rosary.

On the sixth night, he dreams about the taste of berries, juice dripping from his chin. He dreams about the rasp of a stubble-rough cheek against his own, a wet tongue cleaning his lips. He wakes up to the crust of his own semen, dried on his sheets, flaking from his thighs.

That morning, Charles faced his companions with a flush on his cheeks, as though they could read the shame of it on him. Instead, Henry, in all truth oblivious to anything other than his studies and Charles’s sister, clapped him on the back and said how good it was to see Charles so well rested.

He is not a superstitious man, Charles thinks, standing from his bedside and straightening out the folds of his nightshirt. He whistles at night without fearing spirits. He does not hold his breath when he walks past a graveyard. Charles is a man of science.

There is no reason to find this dream more significant than the others. This is the seventh night, though, and perhaps he is more of a believer than he has considered himself to be. Or perhaps it is just that he wants to know, to understand. 

Something in the woods is calling him. And he wants to answer it.

The circumstances favor him – no one else is stirring when Charles creeps from his room, still barefoot, still clad only in his sleep clothes. The stairs creak under his weight but he does not think anyone will come and investigate the noise. It’s the deepest part of the night. But more than that, Charles thinks that no one wants to know who is sneaking through the halls.

He’s not entirely naïve, after all. 

The main room is lit only by fire light; the bar man is asleep with his head pillowed on his crossed arms. The door is barred but it is simple enough to lift the latch and step outside into the moonlit courtyard that fronts the inn.

It’s foolish – he knows it is. But Charles is curious. If there is one thing he knows about himself, it is that he must find the answers to the questions that take him.

The road and the forest are there before him. It’s the seventh night, and Charles is awake. He does not want to hide away, greet the morning with his body in rebellion again. The dirt is cold on the soles of his feet; the grass is wet when he treads through it. 

If asked, Charles will say that he could not sleep. He will say that the brightness of the moon kept him up. He will say that he thought he saw something in the courtyard. He will say… Charles does not care about any of that. He will say whatever he needs to say to satisfy anyone who finds him. Until that happens, he will press forward, will cross the road and stand at the tree line, waiting for whatever has been waiting for him.

Even so, the rustle and glint of leaves turning as a large body passes is a surprise. 

Charles steps back, turns his ankle when a sharp rock digs into his heel. It shakes something loose in him, wakes him up from some haze that has made it seem like a good idea to come out under the fullness of the moon without even his shoes.

Sweat gathers – Charles can feel the slickness of it in his armpits and behind his knees. The feel of it gives him a sense of double vision; it’s so similar to the dream that woke him. 

Just as in his dream, there is the sound of something coming, rushing forward through the woods toward him. He doesn’t think; Charles simply flees. He stumbles back onto the road as the branches at the tree line begin to quiver. It’s enough to set him running down the road.

He’s not so fleet as he has been in his dreams. And the sound of hooves stepping onto the road behind him carries in the quiet. It spurs him on even more. But with every step, he can hear the quickening pace of the rider behind him until Charles swears he can feel the heat of the horse’s blowing exhales. Until there is nothing in Charles’s ears but his panicked pulse and the certainty that he will be caught.

And then, with a hard fist in the back of his shirt, Charles IS caught. He has no breath left to cry out in protest – he is hauled up, dragged across a black leather saddle, the only detail he can take in before he’s held tight to muscular thighs and the horse leaves the road.

Charles loses consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up, little one.” The voice is low and meant to bend around sharp corners.

Charles resists it, tries to pull away before he’s even full conscious. But there is no relief from the iron grip holding him upright. 

“Little one, if you do not open your eyes I will cast you to the dogs. My hounds are hungry.” It’s a promise, full of teeth.

The bite of it shocks Charles to alertness.

And then his eyes open wide.

He’s in a clearing. That’s all he knows because his attention is taken by the creature standing before him.

It’s the glossy black boots that register first. They’re well cared for, creased and worn but shiny with oil. It strikes Charles that whoever his abductor is – for surely he has been carried off in the night – the man cares for his things. But the thought is interrupted; Charles exhales through parted lips.

It’s not the dark clothing, breeches and waistcoat and the tightly fitted hunting jacket of a gentleman, which sharpens the focus of his vision. Charles sees the breadth of the shoulders, the strong forehead and cutting features but does not linger to gather the fine details of the sculpted mouth. It is the stag horns that capture him – and now Charles cannot look away from the full crown of branching antlers that make the imposing figure standing over him even taller.

“What are you?” There isn’t enough fear in his voice, Charles thinks, behind the dry moat of his reason. He should be afraid. But there isn’t anything other than his awe at this man.

The answering chuckle is dry and entirely unamused. “I am the Hunter, little one. And you ran from me.” 

Charles frowns, as stern as he can manage, straightens his back where he sits on the ground. He had run – but his body had made that decision for him in a rare bid for control. It is not often Charles does not lead with his mind. “To be fair, you chased me. Running seemed like the thing to do.” 

Without warning, Charles is being hauled to his feet, the same fist that caught him once more wrapped up in his nightshirt. This close, the man – the fairy lord, for surely this creature is important – smells of fresh upturned soil, crushed leaves. Charles is struck with the thought that anyone so wild must surely taste of berries and bitter wild greens. 

This close, and Charles sees beyond the horns, looks instead at the man’s eyes: like pale green beach glass, tumbled in the sand until all the rough edges are worn away. No, not so smooth as all that, though – there’s something fractured deep in this man’s gaze, and Charles thinks about broken shells, all razor edges and iridescent mother of pearl.

“No respect for your betters, mortal?” 

There’s a gust of hot breath on Charles’s cheek and he feels the muscles of his neck give way without any conscious command. He will castigate himself later, Charles thinks, for swooning like a corseted maiden. But right now, the frightful intimacy of that shared air makes him weak, makes his heart race.

This is what is wrong with him, what he’s hidden from his colleagues and the few he calls friends, this damnable weakness, this pervasive desire. Charles opens his mouth but cannot form a protest.

Until he is released, abrupt and shocking – he falters, cannot catch his balance before he falls. The ground stings his palms; he is unnatural and now he is faced with this nature spirit. Charles hangs his head, overwhelmed. His voice is barely a whisper, too shamed for strong words. “You’re disgusted with me? Will you leave me here alone now?”

Silence is the only response, but there is no sound of retreat – Charles counts his heartbeats until he must look up, must see.

He is met with a narrowed, studious gaze. The man has tilted his head, is pondering Charles like he is some mystery worth attention, worth thought bent to the solving of him. No one has ever looked at Charles with such intensity and, even as he tightens his fingers, holds onto the earth beneath him, he trembles under the power of it.

There’s no relief from that intensity; the man steps close again, leans down to curl a finger below Charles’s chin. Charles holds his breath.

“Who are you, little one? You smell familiar to me.” The single finger turns into the slide of a palm, warm and strong, bare skin where Charles would have expected the barrier of gloves.

The breath to answer lodges in his chest. “Charles. My name is Charles.”

“You’re going to come with me, Charles.”


	3. Chapter 3

He finds himself once more on horseback, this time astride, held firm in front of his abductor. The shift of muscle between his bare thighs, the pressure of a solid body behind him – Charles wants to squirm but humiliation locks him rigid, muscles as stiff as his cock has been each morning. In truth, as stiff as he is now. He tells himself it is fear.

The reins are pulled back; the horse slows to a walk. And the voice that speaks close to his ear also vibrates through his chest. “You will call me Erik.”

To have a name, an identity of some kind, makes Charles relax. But it’s short lived – Erik’s big hand settles between Charles’s legs, cups his hardness.

“What are you doing?” Charles has nowhere to go, no avenue for escape. There is the strength of Erik’s hand in front of him and the vee of Erik’s thighs behind. There is unrelenting pressure and the rhythm of the horse. Erik tightens his grasp, and Charles whines – even he cannot tell if it is a noise of protest.

Erik’s chuckles, a rumbling sound of smug response into the back of Charles’s neck. “You smell like want, little one.” He laughs again, this time through a sharp nip to the tender skin of Charles’s neck. “Well, perhaps not entirely little. No child, are you, mortal?”

Charles is more than a man grown – he grunts his objection but can’t form the words to explain that he is a professor, a full scholar with all his robes, even though they are packed away in a trunk at the moment. Instead, he gasps – Erik’s hand has shifted, is grasping his cock and stroking it.

He’s lightheaded, throbbing, and everything about his situation feels like a surreal dream. He half expects to wake in his bed, his spent cock curled and limp, his sheets messed. It doesn’t happen though – and Charles cannot find a way to object. He searches for his composure and then loses any thread of it – Erik spurs the horse to a quicker pace, and it jostles Charles forward into Erik’s fist.

When he shifts back, there is the unmistakable press of Erik’s erection against his ass. Charles cries out at the feel of it, uncertain and unbearably aroused. “It’s a sin,” he chokes out – but Erik only laughs again.

And then drops the reins to reach under the bunched fabric preserving the last vestiges of Charles’s modesty. 

It’s the seventh night and his body is taut with sustained need; the light scrape of nails from knee to balls is enough to tip him over. Charles feels the pinch of orgasm, bites his lip against the profane pleasure of it.

He has room to be grateful that Erik does not let him fall off the horse.

But the rest of his dignity sits ice cold in his stomach, a congealed mass like porridge left out on the table overnight. He has no control, no sense of propriety. The wetness of a tongue behind his ear brings Charles’s head up when he would otherwise have continued to hang it in shame.

“What are you doing to me?” Charles is undone.

“Nothing yet.” Erik pulls his hand out from between Charles’s thighs. He licks his fingers clean.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes long enough to get where they are going that Charles is sticky and itchy, concerned that he will leave bits of skin and hair behind if he is ever allowed to dismount. He’s definitely chaffed something tender.

When the horse stops, it takes Charles a moment to realize they are in a courtyard. With stables – it must be a stable because it looks like every other stable he has seen since entering the forest – to one side and a door to the other, a door set into the base of a large tree. That does not look like anything else he has seen anywhere. If a manor house had sprung up out of the darkness and fog, Charles thinks he would be less surprised.

Instead of a house, a horse groom appears - Charles would startle at his appearance but he lacks the energy, is overwhelmed with everything else. The man is short, with a greenish cast to his skin. He walks like he isn't used to going on two feet, and his mouth stretches wide, from ear to ear like a frog's mouth. He takes the reins from Erik, holds the horse so Erik can turn and dismount. Erik sighs when he is on his own two feet – it almost sounds tired to Charles’s ears. Not too tired to catch hold of Charles though, by his collar like he is a schoolboy who would try to escape. Not into the woods, not in the middle of the night. He’s used up his foolishness for the evening, and look where it has gotten him.

It’s gotten him disgraced. It’s gotten him dragged from horseback and herded toward the door that should not exist. It’s gotten him a knowing look from that odd horse groom.

Charles thinks he will die from the humiliation of it.

But he would not be himself if he were not also curious; Erik pulls a key on a cord around his neck loose from his shirt and Charles pays attention. The key is shiny, gold in color.

Of course it would not be iron. Charles is a man of science but he’s heard his fairy tales before. That’s all it takes for him to find his reason once again. He straightens his posture, brushes a palm down the front of his nightshirt. He has acquaintances who study the local folklore. His sister is fascinated by it, though Charles has never – until now – found any reason to believe in it. He thinks back through lectures over ale in the pub, scans his memory until he finds the reference he needs. Stag’s antlers. A hunter.

Charles knows who Erik is.

Pride eclipses the fear that he should be feeling. Intellectually, Charles realizes, he should be very afraid indeed. “You’re the Erlking.”

Erik pushes open the door, pushes Charles through it before him, and ducks so that his horns clear the doorframe. “If you know that, then you should tremble.”

It’s enough to propel Charles down the corridor he finds himself in, with a smooth dirt floor that curves up into warm wood-paneled walls. It’s dark enough that he wants to reach a hand out, wants to steady himself as he stumbles along in front of the Erlking, this creature who has named himself Erik. If he falls, Charles fears, he will be trampled under Erik’s booted feet.

It’s not an idle thought – Erik strides at a quicker pace than Charles is comfortable with, herds Charles further down the hall. The passage doesn’t branch, but there are doors now, heavy and wooden with brass doorknobs. The doors are unmarked, and Charles doesn’t have time to wonder where they might lead, what rooms they might guard.

The corridor opens up into a room, a sitting chamber with a fireplace and chairs, books in stacks on the side tables. It’s a comfortable room, full of oak and leather and fur. Charles wants to touch, wants to run his fingers along the embossed titles on each book spine. But Erik isn’t stopping – when Charles slows, almost pauses, he pushes Charles along.

Because there is another door. Another heavy wooden door with another brass doorknob. Erik walks forward until Charles is pressed against the closed barrier, cheek against the cold wood. The body behind him is warm, hotter than it was when they were on the horse, and Charles suppresses a moan – he’s been shamed enough for one evening; he swallows his dignity back down where it is supposed to go and doesn’t whimper when Erik reaches for the doorknob, turns it, opens the passageway to push Charles further.

It’s a bedchamber. Charles does tremble now, just over the threshold, feels his knees lock and his feet refuse to step further into the room. Thick carpets, rich draperies – it’s all slightly tattered but very fine, nicer than the rooms Charles keeps at the university. More like his father’s rooms, his mother’s dressing room in rich shades of wine and velvet.

There is a bed, raised on a platform. Curtains hang from the ceiling, block most of it from view. But the tangle of bedclothes thrown aside in haste is plain.

The door closes, solid and unyielding behind him. The click of a lock is loud in Charles's ears, and then he realizes: he is alone. The Erlking has left him.


End file.
